The day I didn't get out of your car right away was the day I knew I felt something for you.
You pulled up to my house and I left my seatbelt on. I could've stayed and talked to you for hours. It didn't have to be about anything. I wish you would have kept driving.
Fleeting looks. Convincing myself it's nothing. Then convincing myself it's more than nothing. Then convincing myself over and over that if it were something it would never end in something else.
The cycle. Stained by feelings. Clean as if it never were. I am stuck in a washing machine.
I look forward to the next time. You make me look forward not back. Unless we are running up stairs in the cold night. Through parking lots that are covered in snow. Yet, you are in a t-shirt. And the man that asked us to unload his trunk wasn't talking to us at all. But it became our inside joke. We have something we share now. It may never mean anything to you. But every time you refer back to the guy and his truck. My cheeks hurt from the inside out. It is ours.
You said you were lonely. I could help with that. How many languages do I have to speak before you hear my loneliness echoing off of every surface.
How sad was I to find that you were only joking, yet I was the serious one.
YOU ARE READING
Endlessly Falling
PoetryI have a slight problem. It is banal. Inconsiderable. Inconsequential. Insipid, vain, and trivial. Some might even some vapid or nugatory. So frivolous. But, to me it is kind of a biggie. Here's the deal. I have a problem with falling in love... re...
